


Pet

by Maiden_of_the_Moon



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (As proposed by the brilliant Minatu), Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, M/M, Mafia AU, Master/Servant, Russian Mafia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 06:47:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9372884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_the_Moon/pseuds/Maiden_of_the_Moon
Summary: “Of course,” he continues, low and horribly, gut-churningly soft, “our way of life is not conducive to raising fluffy, cuddly, friendly poodles. And so, Sir, when it came time for me to choose anewViktor, I adopted the strongest, swiftest, and most brutal pet I could find.”[Mafia AU, as proposed by tumblr's Minatu.]





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dangersocks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangersocks/gifts).



**Disclaimer:** Nope. 

**Author’s Note:** Minatu’s proposed mafia AU breathed life into my dying body, then killed me on its own terms. 

**Dedication:** I violently shoot additional love at Dangersocks, who has so gallantly thrown herself into Gay Figure Skating Hell to keep me company. Bless.

 **Warnings:** My master/servant dynamics kink is showing—how embarrassing! Also OC death, I guess. (Oh. No.) No beta; edited once. _Zolotse_ , as I understand it, is a Russian endearment meaning “my Gold.” I have nothing against Mickey, Sara, or JJ. 

**XXX**

**Pet**

**XXX**

“I… have to admit, I’m not sure why I’m here,” he whispers, the confession so diminutive one might even call it demure. Certainly there is reservation in the way the Japanese man is clutching that stack of papers to his chest, countless pages crinkling against the buttons of his suit. He wets his lips. He scuffs his feet. There is a hunch to his shoulders that makes the trim, tailored outfit seem unfitted, as much as unfitting; documents wrinkle to match the man’s nose when he pushes smudged glasses up its bridge. Nerves warbling beneath his voice, he adds, “Isn’t… Isn’t this the sort of meeting… that you need Mister Nikiforov for…?”

One of the men gathered in the banquet hall snorts. Another grunts. Most stay quiet, their smiles equal parts bland and dangerous as they calculatedly consider the little mouse that Viktor Nikiforov, successor to Papa Feltsman, is said to keep as his pet. 

Pet and chauffer. 

“Yuuri Katsuki,” greets the man least covered in shadows, the one standing closest to the cherry wood table. There is a musical lilt to his English, an accent blending its notes. French, by the sound of it. One of the Canadian guests, then, it can reasonably be assumed. Likely a member of that family the Fairy loathes: A Leroy.

Yuuri swallows, the flesh of his inner cheek caught between his teeth. “Um. Yes, Sir?” 

“We heard about what happened to your family,” the Leroy murmurs, sympathetic. A callused fingertip skates mindless figure eights upon the table ledge. Yuuri’s brown eyes widen. “Killed, right? By a traitor.” 

Someone in the corner shifts. The sound of fabric readjusting, of patent soles on hardwood, makes Yuuri jump. His head whips towards the noise, then back to the speaker.

“I…” 

“You’re a smart lad, I hear. So you know that it was _probably_ a hit ordered by Feltsman, yeah?” the Canadian continues, focused more upon the routine that he draws than on the man that he is speaking to. The dull quirk of his lips gains sharp corners; a dimple has been pierced into one cheek. “I mean. Any nimrod could figure that out. Only the Katsuki yakuza family posed any real threat to Feltsman’s clan. Better to nip something like that in the bud, they say, than to wait to see what blooms from troubling seeds.”

“I—” Yuuri flounders, his pink tongue flashing again over his lips. He clutches his papers more tightly. “Why are you saying this to me, Sir…? What is the point? What are— Why are you all gathered here, anyway? Mister Nikiforov told me that he was meeting with you all at 11 in the dining hall and… This… This isn’t…” 

“Yes, you’re exactly right. ‘This isn’t.’”

The Leroy lifts his face and cocks his head, the curve of his smirk catching the rosy light of the chandelier above. It glints, too, off the butt of a pistol, off the crystal of Yuuri’s spectacles. The latter gasps. 

He understands.

“Y-you mean…” 

“You should want revenge against Nikiforov and his brood as much as anybody,” the Leroy hisses, urgent and urging. Behind him, his men shuffle soundlessly, impatiently, moving against the wall’s ornate reliefs as if sentient silhouettes. “And you, Yuuri Katsuki, are in a unique position to get precisely that. That and _more_. Viktor Nikiforov trusts you. Depends on you. Hell, I’ve even heard he _loves_ you. Use that to your advantage, Yuuri. If you’re not sure how, we’ll help you. We have people, we have resources. All we need is someone on the _inside_. Be that someone, Yuuri. Join us, and together the Leroys and the Katsukis will take down the bastard Nikiforov and his repugnant family once and for—”

The sudden creak of the hall’s massive double doors cuts the Canadian off with a groan. He straightens; Yuuri quails. The doors’ exertions are echoed by the one who now heaves them open, a vaguely recognized pawn of the Mafioso twins who had also come seeking Nikiforov’s favor. 

“Am I late for the coup?” he jests, perhaps to prove he is, indeed, every inch as dumb as he looks. The young man sweeps an unsubtle glance over the scene beyond the jamb, taking in the dim and the tension. The atmosphere does little to faze him; he does not flinch under the Leroy’s scowl. 

He does, however, blanch as white as a ghost when his foolish stare falls upon Yuuri. For a moment, the boy’s eyes look like they might pop clean from his skull. 

“H-hey,” he gapes, flinching instinctively backwards, “why the hell would you invite the _pakhan_ t—?”

His question is punctuated by a bullet through his brow. 

The crack of a gun is lost beneath the drop of a body, the shattering of bones. The breath of a sigh. 

“What a waste,” Yuuri mutters to himself, thoroughly unimpressed, as he watches the Mafioso minion crumple into a pile of expensive clothes and brain matter. The banquet hall and the corridor beyond resonate with the shriek of his death; an evanescent curl of smoke pirouettes from the barrel of Yuuri’s gun, drawn seemingly from nowhere. “Everyone could have enjoyed a cleaner, kinder end had you kept your mouth shut, little one.” 

A pause. 

“…well. Maybe not a _kinder_ end,” Yuuri corrects himself, a wry smirk needling at his cheeks. The sentiment is underscored by abrupt and hysteric movement—a flurry of thrown papers— another round of gunfire, heads bursting backwards as unprepared henchmen scramble for their weapons. A splash of crimson splatters against Yuuri’s pale temple; willowy fingers comb that dampness into his hair, slicking strands of it back and away from his face. His spectacles have vanished, along with the aura of timidity that he had been wearing like an oversized jacket. Yuuri Katsuki is tall, proud, and _present_ , the cut of his suit as terrifyingly sharp as that of his grin. It looms like Death’s scythe. When he licks his lips this time, no one is surprised that his tongue comes away bloody. 

Or rather, the Leroy isn’t surprised. No one else is alive to react one way or another. 

“H-holy shit—”

“Now, then, Sir,” the _pakhan_ purrs, dancing through a labyrinth of fallen foes and fluttering, fluid-spattered intel, “where were we before being so rudely interrupted…? Ah yes. You were making a grand case about my becoming that which I despise most in the entire world.” 

Along with all of his men, the Leroy has lost his voice. A squeak of horror wedges in his gullet; his knees knock so powerfully that Yuuri can hear them from half-way across the room. From a quarter of the way across the room. The Canadian whimpers, hands in the air and remnants of his dignity dripping down his leg. 

“Being honest, Sir, I almost find it funny,” Yuuri persists, sweet, as he circles closer to the head of the cherry wood table. “Between all the presumptions that you and yours made about me, never once did it occur to you that the victim of a traitor might _not_ be keen on becoming one himself.” 

“I—”

“Though perhaps you were too busy planning on how to abuse my men and fortunes to consider your proposal’s every possible outcome. _Tsk tsk_. That sort of arrogance inevitably leads to underestimating your foes.” 

“I—!”

“Let me tell you a story,” Yuuri interrupts, painfully gentle, as the end of his gun kisses the Leroy’s clammy forehead. A second whine hitches in the back of the older man’s throat; jellified legs finally give out beneath his leaden body, and Yuuri follows the conspirator down, down, down as he crumples. The baroque armchair that caps the table’s far end catches the Canadian’s fall, as well as an elegant knee. Canting forward, pistol grinding, Yuuri silkily adds, “I think you will enjoy it, given that you seem quite taken with my past.” 

“P-please, don’t—”

“Once upon a time, when I was just a dear, wee thing,” Yuuri beams, “I had a puppy, Sir. Viktor, I called him. He was simply the cutest poodle you could ever hope to meet: Fluffy, cuddly, friendly. Love incarnate, I used to think.” 

A glove of finished black leather gains and loses glossy highlights as the _pakhan_ toggles with his gun’s trigger. When he frowns, there is regret in the expression.

“Of course,” he continues, low and horribly, gut-churningly soft, “our way of life is not conducive to raising fluffy, cuddly, friendly poodles. A mistake on my part… One that, in the aftermath of certain events, I vowed never to make again. And so, Sir, when it came time for me to choose a _new_ Viktor, I adopted the strongest, swiftest, and most brutal pet I could find.”

Laughter shines metallic in the cold of Yuuri’s eyes, his chuckles hot against the cheek he dips to kiss goodbye. Long lashes flutter; the stench of ammonia fills his nostrils. 

“ _Here boy_ ,” Yuuri coos into the gloom. 

This time, the double doors open on silent hinges. 

**X ******

“Viktor, pet, I do so _hate_ to bother you with janitorial work,” Yuuri laments in murmurs, “but there is a little piece of shit on my seat, and I cannot bear to touch it myself. Do you mind?”

“Not at all, Sir,” Viktor assures, one hand to his chest and the other upon the gilded wingback chair. The bow that he dips into sees a mangled corpse dumped from the throne’s confines. Teeth crack against cold laths. Secretions pool. The Canadian’s remains leave streaks across the polished floor as he is kicked mindlessly aside, closer to his brethren. “Better, Master?”

“Much,” said Master nods, fishing pristine glasses from his breast pocket. After settling the frames upon his nose, he himself settles atop the stained chair, one leg looped loosely over the other. The hall is a hell of gore now, of ashen faces frozen in looks of mortification. It is not a pleasant sight, and so Yuuri has opted to turn his seat around, ignoring the mess that the maids are in the midst of cleaning. Rather than his handiwork, hooded eyes consider the overlay of clouds beyond the windows.

There are wire-rendered diamonds woven through the countless panes; they cast pale shadows over Yuuri’s paler face. Snow is on the way, thick and white and heavy, like the day that they two met, and its promise paints the younger man’s delicate features in pastel shades. Yuuri glows in the wan light. He reflects it, moon-like. Drying fluids add a craquelure to the artful arrangement of his bangs, as black and as thick as acrylic paint; his contours are smooth, like sweeps of charcoal pencil. With a statue’s easy poise, Yuuri balances his chin on the back of crooked knuckles, his gloves a glorious contrast to his porcelain skin, and Viktor thinks he has never seen anything so beautiful. 

Sinking to his knees, unconcerned about things like pride or present company, he nudges at Yuuri’s free hand where it has been draped over the armrest. Laugher huffs through flared nostrils.

“Yes, yes. Good boy,” the _pakhan_ praises, just shy of being droll, as he gives his stooped underling a scratch behind the ears. Viktor preens, nuzzling into the palm that weaves through his hair, strokes down his face. “You played a magnificent game of fetch, Viktor. Sniffing those men out, bringing them here… and acting the role of boss so convincingly in front of them.” 

“Anything for you, _Zolotse_.” 

“Mmm. Exactly so,” Yuuri agrees, his voice and his smile almost distant with wistfulness. Idle fingertips are all that keep him present, anchored; he toys with the end of a silvery curl. He gazes over his city, but only for this moment. In the next, he is distracted by his fouled shoes. His stained gloves. “And on that very subject…” 

“You dirtied your hands today,” Viktor finishes, piping. Pouting. A smooth brow gains pinches of distress when he next nestles against his beloved Master, a kiss pressed to the end of a blessedly long lifeline. “It is not my place to say as much, my Lord, but I _hate_ it when you do that. I abhor it. Loathe it. Whenever you soil these perfect, exquisite hands of yours, Sir, it all but kills me inside. Really, there is little I despise more in this world.”

“Oh?” Another chortle lilts from lifted lips. The sky outside is gunmetal gray. “And why is that, pet?”

“Because, Master,” Viktor sulks, “that is the reason that you have me. I am here to protect you. To keep you and your perfect, exquisite hands clean. I wish you would use me more for that purpose, _Zolotse_ , because I exist to be used by you. I _want_ to be used by you. So please, my Lord. _Use_ me.” 

“Mmm,” Yuuri rumbles again, this time in acknowledgment. The sound is splendidly husky in Viktor’s ears. It pinks them. It warms him. The obsequious Russian flushes an anticipatory cerise when his Master casts a glance his way, studying him along with the hand that he has been carding through towy locks. Affections come to a contemplative pause; Yuuri considers the blots on his fingertips. He hums.

“Well, Mister Nikiforov,” the _pakhan_ then says, looking away once more, “If you feel _that_ strongly about it… I suppose I could still use you to keep my hands clean.” 

The tip of a thumb settles atop pliant lips. It pushes. 

Viktor growls, delighted, and opens his mouth wide. 

**XXX**


End file.
